


A Deep Sleep

by junkienicky



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Strong Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkienicky/pseuds/junkienicky
Summary: An alternate ending to 'Bleed Out'.





	A Deep Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this isn’t a fix-it fic, just something I wanted to explore after somebody posted a theory on the subreddit. Also, that new season 7 trailer has got me pumped!

Bridget has never been so unsettled by a closed mouth before. Not once in her life.

From the moment since they’d first met, Franky was a nonstop talker. She’d drawl out anything that sprung to mind with humour, curiosity, a tangible ounce of flirting in there, too, and sometimes with anger, fear or hurt. Bridget encouraged her to talk more and express the shit that simmered beneath her skin, because, really, it was her job to help and, aside from that, Bridget really did, genuinely, have an interest in what Franky had to say. She was a listener. It was more than just reflecting, rambling and signing a piece of paper in favour of getting Franky her parole. It was a lot more complex than that. Waiting on this chair with a faintly warm paper cup of coffee sitting in her hands and the distant sounds of surgeons mumbling and those two bastard detectives standing timidly, looking flustered with blank, mistaken faces, was where that complexity has led Bridget to. And now –

Now a silence is all she is greeted with as she sits and watches Franky sleep. And she _is_ sleeping. She’ll wake up soon and Bridget will have the liberty of taking her in her arms and guiding her to their bed for them to murmur over just how ridiculous these past few months have been for them, before they fall back into a snoozing pattern and continue with their routine of life, all over again. This time, with nothing stopping them. Because they are in this together. They’d decided. They’d agreed, and they may as well have that golden metal band around their fourth fingers at this point, Bridget muses, because she is so ride or die for this woman, it may as well be on paper and be spoken out with vows.

But for now, she waits. She waits for Franky to awake, and she’s not going to rush her at all. For now, she lets her sleep and admires the look of simplicity on her face. The stillness that’s so like her to never move a single inch when she snoozes with her raven hair resting on her shoulders. That’s how Bridget knows – Franky’s just sleeping. She rarely toots her own horn or maunders over her metaphysical accuracy of philosophy, but Bridget tended to be right about most things, generally. And she certainly knows more than anyone about Franky. It doesn’t matter what everyone else says. Franky’s sleeping.

A quiet nervousness rumbling from the pit of her stomach to the tightness in her chest is infeasible to ignore, though. Its surface area increases evermore rapidly with each click of the clock hand as time passes on, and the light behind the glass bleeds into dusk with aggressive-looking clouds conquering the sky. _I’ll wait forever if you want me to, Franky, but please wake up soon,_ Bridget thinks pleadingly. _I won’t concede to what they’re saying._

People and nurses walk around Bridget, in and out, in and out, like they’re fucking the ward, but it doesn’t distract her too much. Doesn’t ruin her focus on the important thing. They rush around so quickly and side-eye Bridget with sympathy that they’re like a repeating time-lapse. Everything else for Bridget is frozen. Just as frozen as Franky is sleeping.

After so long, her hands begin to feel stiff and numb and the ill-looking coffee in that paper cup is as cold as stone. It’s only then that Bridget feels a hand on her shoulder from behind and a gentle squeeze. She looks up reluctantly, then gives out a small sigh of relief at the sight of an unsettled Vera looking like she has so much to say, though can hardly think of where to begin. “Oh, Vera,” Bridget says with a little smile, thankful it isn’t detective Hydari or detective Collins. Vera sits, anxiously, and isn’t sure how she should go about any of this. She starts by tentatively taking the cup from Bridget that has likely been in the same position for a good while. It’s like trying to shift a small part in a broken-down machine. She places it to the floor and embraces Bridget into a hug. A hug that feels all too sympathetic for Bridget’s liking, with the added affection of soft pats to her back, but the blonde complies and swallows thickly, desperately trying to discard the dull ache that rings throughout her sternum before she pulls back. She’s not ready to hear the same thing again. “She’s, um, she’s sleeping,” Bridget says, quirking her mouth into a sad smile, and all Vera can do is curl her lips and fiddle with the sleeves of her black coat to help trek herself through the difficult calamity of the situation. She isn’t going _there_ just yet. “You’ve been here for three hours,” Vera speaks softly and with patience. To that, Bridget turns and looks at her friend. “Oh, I thought it was longer than that,” she replies, frowning.

There’s a tense silence, the air between them stilted and cold as Vera’s composure hangs by a thread, and it leaves her quietly clearing her throat now and then. “Bridget…” she starts again, firmer, but not unpleasant or anything that sounds like it detains the deepest sorrow she feels for her close ally. But as a friend, it’s her place to say it to her. Grasp her soothingly by the arms and make her see.

Bridget blinks to acknowledge she heard Vera because her eyes don’t wish to leave Franky. Her Franky that’s only sleeping. Vera understands this and glances, too, feeling a slight bit intrusive, but then, it suddenly hits her that maybe it doesn’t look as bad as the dismal reality actually is. She looks sound and comfortable with the bed covers neatly draped over her body. Her expression is still and the olive complexion that once blessed her face and complimented her twinkling mint eyes is waxier and blanched. Her chest is motionless and not a teensy peep slips out from her closed lips. Vera inhales curtly, newfound wetness glistening at the back of her eyes that she abruptly blinks away.

She clasps Bridget’s hand with her own, giving it a squeeze while she waits for her to say something and offers her all the time that she needs.

Maybe Vera will never quite grasp what it was that they had – what exactly had drawn them so close to each other – or just how much Bridget was willing to sacrifice herself for Franky. But that doesn’t matter. It isn’t important now. What is important is being the friend that Bridget will need.

“Oh, Bridget…” she whispers, downcast. The silence from Bridget is making Vera’s solacing methods spent and she lets her mind rush to think of something. Anything that has the potential to comfort Bridget in the smallest form. “I’m so sorry,” she says, so quietly that it’s almost inaudible. A whimper threatens to escape the blonde’s throat that she succeeds to suppress with unimaginable effort.

Instead, she’s visibly blanched at this reminder of mortality.

Franky’s face is as still as stone, while she feels her own contorting with grief.

A solitary tear drops from her eye to the white canvas of her cheek. She doesn’t wipe the stain away.

She presses her lips tightly together to keep herself from screaming as she takes her eyes to rake over every inch of Franky’s face – memorising the features.

How desolate. How unfair.

* * *

Bridget accepts it, eventually, because she has to. She pulls the black blazer up and onto her arms, feeling bleak, and leaving a grimace for herself at the pitiful reflection in the full-length mirror. The sight leaves her feeling sick to her stomach and she wants to rip every stitch of fabric off, dunk herself into a steaming hot bath and rub away the stench of these last few weeks that have had her trudging through, mandatorily. Because, like everyone says – the world goes on.

Well, she’s fucking weary of hearing that over and over again, too. The words, and certainly the world, mean nothing anymore.

Her feet take her drowsily back into the cluttered conjoined kitchen and living area of the house that looks grimmer and more lifeless by the day. There is no one rushing around flamboyantly, ambling her way around the island and pouring every ounce of her hearty soul into making breakfast every morning, before they each burst out of the front door with loving kisses and good will as they venture off into separate cars to their awaiting jobs for the day.

The area is now clustered with grubby plates, stained mugs, and shrivelled up, colourless flower petals that serve Bridget of yet another depressing reminder of just how big a part of her life Franky is. Was.

She imagines the brunette seeing her like this and humours herself with the wishful imagination as she reaches for a bottle. One that she’d started last night, though hasn’t quite finished.

The ceremony is short, humble and civilised, with a handful of people. Tess, Alan, his wife Shanay, Imogen, Andy, Mel, Strathairn, Will and Vera. Bridget said her bit, and now she looks over to Alan, who is stuttering nervously and unfolding crinkly pieces of paper in one hand and squeezing Tess’ firmly with the other. While he reads on, a look of confusion embarks on little Tess’ face more than anything, and that’s nearly enough there and then to break Bridget in half all over again. She’s four next week and far too young to understand the real circumstances that have led to this. Alan told her that Franky was sick and had to go away but that she would be peaceful and looking down, smiling. Bridget takes kindly to that thought.

But then it suddenly hits Bridget. Would Franky be ashamed of the state she’d let herself get into?

All too soon, the moment has passed. People have slowly parted their separate ways and yet again, Bridget will be the last to move. Seized by a foreign boldness, she straightens up and allows her eyes to graze properly over the headstone surrounded by liliums and roses. Franky’s favourites.

 _Francesca Doyle_ , her stone says, which Franky probably wouldn’t have appreciated all too much, but Bridget hadn’t dared to protest her father’s choice. Not in the state he was in.

At the end of the day, it would always be in good faith.

She grants permission for her mind to ponder at warm thoughts that tingle in her stomach. She closes her eyes as she does so, a gentle gust blowing through the strands of honey hair as the skies break above.

She imagines sitting in the visitation room as Boomer, Allie and Lizzie make their way in. A wide smile practically breaks Boomer’s face in half as she joyously rushes her way over to lift Franky’s lanky body high in her arms.

She imagines taking easy steps to the park on a summery, wind-filled day to visit Tess and Alan. A kite soars high in the sky as Tess runs her way over into the arms of a beaming Franky with no troubles to cloud her thoughts.

Just her freedom, her family and the blue sky.

And then the kite flies away.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I'm evil. Shout out to Lutefiskfisk. Any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
